


Skin Vision

by hunted



Series: Trans Geralt [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Adult Characters (Aged 21 or Older), Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Banter, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Gore (Referenced), Canon-Typical Violence (referenced), Chest Binding, Consensual Kink, Danger Kink, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Fisting, Food Kink, Friends to Lovers, Humiliation, M/M, Magic, Masculine Trans Man, Masturbation, Non-Binary Character (Original), Non-binary character, Not Beta Read, Nudity, Overstimulation, Penetration (Front Hole Sex), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Romance, Rough Sex, Sassy, Seduction, Size Difference, Size Kink, Swearing, They/Them Pronouns for Original Character, Threesome - M/M/Other, Timeline What Timeline, Top Trans Man, Topping from the Bottom, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Male Character, Trans porn by a trans author, Voyeurism, just take it, look i just started watching the show and i physically needed to write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22478392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: Jaskier lifted his lips from the peach, tongue darting out to taste the moisture at the corners of his mouth. Clearly, subtlety was not his plan. Geralt couldn’t tell whether this was an honest seduction, or just a way to get on his nerves. He suspected that Jaskier would pretend to innocence, should Geralt push him. The thing about the boy was, he desired control, and he controlled desire. He wanted this to proceed at his pace.A dangerous gambit. Particularly around the White Wolf.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Character, Original Character/Original Character
Series: Trans Geralt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903393
Comments: 132
Kudos: 387





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't feminise male characters when I headcanon them as FTM, so dysphoric trans readers can rest easy. No AFAB language is used to describe Geralt. He is exactly the same as canon, just with the kind of body I prefer to include in fics. As an author, trans bodies are my default, not cis bodies. It's just what I'm more comfortable with. That aside, though, I have a real passion for writing masculine trans men, which made Geralt a _perfect_ candidate for an FTM headcanon. I hope masculine trans readers can connect with this fic! Just 'cause you're pre-op doesn't mean you're feminine or submissive.  
> .  
> .  
> For more information on writing trans men, see [this guide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20475404/chapters/48584630). For a cis bottom's perspective on sleeping with trans men, see [this article](https://www.advocate.com/sexy-beast/2018/8/08/16-things-i-learned-having-sex-trans-men?fbclid=IwAR3Z1CFG0lid62AR24Ilg6UDrtxzal8Eg5KPk0ehwNvo16zgb-FTsYIFjPw#media-gallery-media-1).

Jaskier was a pretty picture. He was undoubtedly a man, with stubble dusting the creamy softness of his cheeks and jaw, but the boyishness of his features had guaranteed him an affinity for the arts. Oh, Geralt could picture the lad with a blade in his hand and a smile full of red teeth, but he’d been able to play to his strengths, bedding noblewomen and weaving a tale of romantic heartbreak that stretched across kingdoms; effortlessly avoiding the kind of violence that Geralt lived and breathed. The darling flower boy, bending for kings, crooning lullabies that left them all spellbound, revenge faltering in the face of such devious seduction.

The bard’s presence was so utterly lovely, so infectious in its appeal, that nobody could resist his flirty petulance.

Not even, it seemed, a Witcher.

Geralt respected the idiot, in a way. There was an art to manipulation that he, in all his raging brutishness and violence, had long forgone. Jaskier played people as finely and cleverly as Geralt sharpened his weapons. The court was an armament unto itself, one that Geralt would never be able to tame.

Not without his pretty boy at his side.

The bard in question was currently perched on a seat, eating a peach- no, to call this performance _eating_ wouldn’t do it proper justice. He held a knife in one hand, a peach in the other. He had taken the blade to its tender skin, burst it with gentle pressure. Opaque juice beaded against the metal, spilling downward, drips travelling down his wrist as he brought the fruit to his mouth. His lips were moist and eager, sucking at the sweet flesh, seeking the taste of summer that burst against his silver tongue. He was swathed in draping white fabric, clearly naked beneath the gown, legs folded delicately, in almost a womanly fashion.

Geralt, who had just walked into the room, stopped in the doorway to consider the situation before him. Jaskier glanced over at him through a hooded gaze, lashes catching upon the waves of hair he’d let grow to his brow. Geralt couldn’t tell whether he wanted to take a fistful of that hair and cut it short with cruel, ragged jerks of a blade, or he wanted to grab the nape of that neck like he would an unruly pup, and crush the bard’s mouth against his own.

Jaskier lifted his lips from the peach, tongue darting out to taste the moisture at the corners of his mouth. Clearly, subtlety was not his plan. Geralt couldn’t tell whether this was an honest seduction, or just a way to get on his nerves. He suspected that Jaskier would pretend to innocence, should Geralt push him. The thing about the boy was, he desired control, and he controlled desire. He wanted this to proceed at his pace.

A dangerous gambit. Particularly around the White Wolf.

“A party with some nobles,” Jaskier declared with a sweeping gesture at his outfit, carelessly waving the knife, “They wished that I entertain them, and so I did.”

Geralt leaned heavily against the doorway, and did not speak. This, at least, was a game he could play. The court could go fuck itself, but this unruly boy, he had come to know and understand. Their dance could so quickly come to an end, and Geralt intended that it would be so. He only wanted to savour the foreplay.

He let his eyes drift downwards, past the handsome shape of Jaskier’s face, down his slender neck, across the softly sloping flesh that led to his narrow shoulder, and then to the fragile collarbone that crested his flat, willowy chest. He was hairless there, and likely elsewhere, too. The boy was more like the rumours of elfhood than any elf Geralt had known. The Witcher continued to look, to have his fill of this moment, drinking in the sight of such beauty; the meat of a narrow thigh, warm and heavy against the padded chair, the other leg outstretched and folded over, knee drawn contrary to the angle of his shoulders.

Geralt was struck, not for the first time, by how breakable the human was. Playing these games wouldn’t prevent a killing blow to his temple, wouldn’t halt the seconds it would take to end his life. But then again, perhaps it would. Geralt knew he could shove his hand into that ribcage and tear organs free, sending blood and entrails flying, but the fact of his physical ability didn’t account for the _pain_ such a possibility sparked in his heart.

He wanted to protect this stupid, wonderful, brilliant boy from harm.

Jaskier watched him in silence. Geralt knew none of this showed on his face, or so he hoped. That expectation was very quickly dissolved when Jaskier’s forehead creased with a frown, his throat tightening incrementally as he swallowed a mouthful of peach. He placed the knife down, discarding it on a nearby table.

“So rare, that you do not rise to the bait, Witcher,” he commented, “You seem troubled. Here I am, quite naked but for a sheet, and you’re as grim as ever.”

Geralt grit his teeth, felt his jaw pulse with a clench of muscle. He walked into the room, shut the door behind him. He didn’t intend to slam it closed, but he did anyway, wood rattling and straining. There he went again. Too emotional too easily, rubbed raw by Jaskier’s influence on him, the amount that those baby-blue eyes saw.

“Put some fucking clothes on,” he said, irritated at the words, annoyed he was so liable to break beneath this man’s influence, “Leave me alone tonight.”

“They only gave us one room, oh fearsome White Wolf,” Jaskier remarked dryly, “There’s a storm coming. Didn’t you hear? All manner of visitors have taken up residence, and paid some tidy coin, too.”

It was only then that Geralt noticed the solitary bed, the two pillows that indicated this was a room for lovers, for liaisons, for married faithfuls amid the sin. The knowledge that he would have to confront their game so soon was… freeing. Still, he let his annoyance show.

“Fuck’s sake. We save these people from a deadly creature, and they treat us like this?”

“Is it really so bad? Being stuck in here with me?”

Geralt levelled Jaskier with one of his furious, deadly glares. The kind of expression that made lesser men shit themselves. As it was, the bard just gave a loaded sigh and stood with a flourish, the draped fabric only precariously managing to cover him as he moved. He was, despite the act, very obviously sober. The human, this man-boy who so tormented Geralt, could never handle his wine. His cheeks became flushed with rosy heat, his words slurred, eyes narrowing shrewdly as he took in the mess of romance and debauchery that surrounded him, the ties between nobility that he plucked and pulled like a puppeteer turned to drink.

Tonight was not such a careless, wild dance. His stride was even and considered, as he made to leave the room. Geralt saw, then, this evening for what it was. A ploy, a falsehood; an advance by the opposing side, that they may not oppose each other at all from here on out. A flash of disappointment in Jaskier’s pretty face, along with the knowledge that he may go bed some other man, pushed Geralt to act.

His hand darted out, seizing Jaskier’s forearm.

The peach tumbled to the floor.

He pulled the boy against him, that soft body colliding with his armour and coat, so very vulnerable in this moment. A gasp burst from that open mouth, lips parted in shock. So unused to force. So innocent to the things that Geralt considered inborn as breathing.

He held Jaskier there, fingers not budging from their iron grip. The bard quivered, head ducked down for fear of being struck. The air shivered between them, alive in some manner, more magical than any spell carried on a whisper. A catch in Geralt’s breath, then, a throb of pain to see his love so frightened.

He loosened his grip. Jaskier didn’t flee, but it was a near thing. He was too scared to move.

Slowly, like he might before a wounded animal, Geralt moved his hand once again. He reached to take Jaskier’s chin, fingers cupping bone as he inclined the bard’s face upward. Jaskier’s lips were pressed into a tight, thin line, bright eyes wide with terror. His breaths buffed against Geralt’s cheek. The other guests at this brewery made distant sounds, boots against hard wood, quiet conversation, noises that seeped through the walls and flavoured their silence.

They were standing so close.

“Silly Dandelion,” Geralt murmured, “Did you think I’d ignore your brazen flirting forever?”

Jaskier seemed shocked. Geralt knew why. This was breaking all the rules, slicing cleanly through the fabric of seduction that the boy had woven. He placed his other hand on Jaskier’s cheek, holding him now, framing his face. So gentle. So tender.

“I could turn your head so quickly,” he whispered, letting voice rumble deep in his throat, just to see the flutter of Jaskier’s lashes, the quiet inhalation that spoke of excitement, “I could rend your spine in two, snap you in half. Grind your bones to dust with one gesture.”

He let sounds hiss between his teeth and grumble from his mouth, every syllable rolled over his tongue with filthy intent. He saw what it did to Jaskier. He knew the human liked it. He drew his thumb over fragile skin, the gesture offering promises and threats of what his touch could bring. The bard sunk his teeth into his bottom lip, and bit down. Geralt could feel his heart racing, feel the emotion wafting from him in waves, the heat boiling in his belly and sinking lower still.

They were standing _so_ _fucking close_.

“But you wouldn’t dare,” Jaskier breathed, voice hoarse as he straddled the space between arousal and fright, “Who would sing your praises then?”

“Many people in many kingdoms, bard.”

“Ah,” Jaskier breathed, regaining his confidence somewhat, “But none can hold a candle to yours truly.”

Geralt smirked, allowing his lips to tilt into a fond expression, letting his eyes soften with a smile that very few lived to remember. He leaned forward, bringing their faces together, noses bumping before lips met. Intimate and soft. He tasted Jaskier’s hesitation, felt the boy exhale into his mouth, stunned and unsure. The flavours of peach and brightness filled his mouth. He was happy, to finally be doing this.

"Geralt, I'm... Since when do you...?"

“Where has your fire gone, pretty Dandelion?”

“I… rather wilt in the face of… of... well, you.”

Geralt’s smile grew. He kissed Jaskier deeper now, and the bard started to melt beneath him, warming and loosening, posture unwinding as tension melted from his bones. Geralt’s palms found the uppermost knot of Jaskier’s back, and followed that spine downward, tracing a valley of skin to where the sheet interrupted his trajectory.

They kept kissing. Jaskier reached up, slender arms winding around Geralt’s muscular form, little more than a boy nuzzling up to a giant. Geralt pushed past his own nervousness, what little of it that remained, and took hold of fabric. He pulled, tugging the robe down and off.

***

Questions had been raised long ago, answered in grunts and growls after Jaskier had seen him showering beneath a waterfall. Water had cascaded over his body as it would any man, but had sluiced downward in a way Jaskier had watched with fascination, until he realised that the most ferocious hunter he had ever encountered embodied both the qualities of a man and something else entirely. Flatness where he had expected to see the full weight of a cock. In the end, he had accepted it, and offered himself up as testament to that fact.

His continued courtship of the Witcher was evidence enough of his unending attraction.

Now, pressed into a bed, he knew he had made the right choice. Geralt was more male than any of his other lovers had been. The feast that had always awaited Jaskier, when he graced men with his presence in their bed, was gracelessly rutting boars or twinkish princes with no aggression or confidence in sex. He had always wanted to be thoroughly ruined, taken, claimed, _kissed._ Why else would he parade himself around so fucking dramatically? His entire career was a plea for dominance.

His wrists were pinned in place, encircled so effortlessly. The Witcher's knees framed his waist, body heavy on top of him as they moved in tandem, Jaskier grinding upward only as much as he was permitted.

Geralt was a sight to behold. His hair was long and silvery white, spilling down his bare shoulders, strands sticking to his forehead as his skin became damp with sweat. Between his legs, they were joined, and Jaskier gazed downward occasionally to behold them, dazed by how _perfect_ it all was. Geralt's masculine, rigid hips tapered down into a flat terrain of flesh, and what lay therein did not detract from his identity at all. His thighs were solid with muscle, furred with pale hair, his abdomen rigid. Pinkish scars were seared into the meat of his torso, stretching from his armpits toward his sternum, disappearing amid the crisscrossing ghosts of old wounds. He was remarkable. A huge man. Jaskier felt dwarfed by him, tiny underneath his bulk, cock crushed up inside a hot, slick channel. Trapped here, pleasure being taken so forcibly, spasms of muscle curling his toes tight as he tried to keep his climax at bay. Golden eyes looking down upon Jaskier with love, with mercilessness, with all the violence of lust that Jaskier had sought.

Jaskier whined, flexing his hands, feeling the sinew of his wrists strain beneath Geralt's grip. "Please," he whispered, a plea he didn't truly want received. And Geralt could see it, could hear the willing submission in his groans.

The Witcher swayed his body forward, fast and sudden. Jaskier cried out.

"You'll take what I give you," Geralt growled.

The bard found himself without words, cheeks aflame in ways he was sure they'd never been before. He was intoxicated. Overwhelmed. The bed creaked and shook as Geralt moved. Jaskier was the one getting fucked. No doubt about it, he was not in charge here.

He knew Geralt would stop. He knew genuine distress would be met with care. That made the danger infinitely more addictive.

"Do you think they can hear us?" His speech was interrupted by choked sounds, the tempo of Geralt's body unrelenting, his voice pitching a note higher in response. "The other guests here, do you think- _ah-_ do you think they know what you're- you're doing to me?"

"Of course," Geralt smiled, lips pulling back to reveal sharp teeth, a killer's smile, "And they can hear _this_ , too."

With that, he spread his legs further, and sunk down lower. The swell of his ass pressed flush against skin. Jaskier wailed, chin jutting upward towards the ceiling. He thought of the people behind walls, upstairs and down, who would hear him being so defiled. Fuck. _Fuck,_ the idea turned him on.

"Fuck me," he begged, "Oh, Geralt, please,"

"You'll take what you're _fucking_ given, bard."


	2. Chapter 2

Haora folded a fresh set of towels over one arm. The linen smelled of lavender, and was soft to the touch; the kind of luxury that they could never have afforded back at home. Taking this job had given them a freedom that many would have scoffed at, viewing their current circumstances as poverty, but that would be disregarding the comforts they now appreciated. A bed to sleep in at night. Food to fill the belly. A diversity of guests, partway through wildly different journeys that all happened to intersect here, beneath the roof of Haora’s employment.

They enjoyed working here. And they loved seeing the different kinds of people that moved about this world.

But tonight was special for another reason.

They stood by their bed, watching themselves in the mirror, breaths hastened by apprehension and excitement. They were a fascination to those around them; an androgynous little thing with dull eyes and a pale, freckle-dotted face, black hair kept short and boyish, chest bound down with a carefully stitched undershirt. They parried questions and ignored attempts to discern their sex, happy to be seen as a boy most of the time, treasuring the warm fluidity of their soul. Years of avoiding attention had gifted them the ability to move in the shadows, pass through rooms smoothly, gazes moving seamlessly over them as guests focussed more on drink or food. There had been rumours of magic in their family; they didn’t examine their own abilities too closely, but there was certainly something special about them. It went beyond just being a gifted servant.

And tonight, for once, Haora had a fascination of their own. One that necessitated use of their gifts. They had seen the White Wolf move about the halls, stony expression making them quiver in terror and desire. They had seen his companion, the pretty boy who Haora so envied, wishing _they_ could be the one beneath the great Geralt’s hand.

All the servants had heard the noises. The helpless wailing, the moans that increased in volume and pace as seconds slipped by. They all knew what was happening to the boy in that room. It sounded like a struggle, wild and passionate like the best sex always did, almost violent in its intensity. Not one servant had dared approach the White Wolf’s door, too afraid of punishment.

But Haora was not like the others.

They took one final glance at their own face, done debating the morality of their intentions. They knew this opportunity would come only once.

They bent to blow out the candle at their bedside, and immediately, they were shrouded in darkness. The comforting weight of night settled against their skin like gossamer, bringing with it a sense of protection and familiarity. When they moved to leave their modest chambers, the floorboards did not creak or groan beneath the press of their bare soles.

They brought the linen with them. Better that they have an excuse, if they were caught.

The halls were sparsely populated, most of the guests retired to their rooms, many seeking the touch of their partners in response to the arousal they felt, hearing the sounds of sex floating from the White Wolf’s room. Haora could hear the pair now. Solid bangs, as if someone were striking the wall, or bedposts were slamming so quickly in response to the thrusting of hips. High-pitched cries, almost sobs, offset by the heavy grunts of a more virile man.

Haora’s breath caught in their throat. Their cheeks were pink, arousal boiling and simmering between their legs; a problem they would attend to later, once they had been able to lay their eyes on the scene inside that room.

They crept down the hallway. A servant girl, without even pausing, strode past Haora, the two almost brushing shoulders. Haora did not flinch from their path. They didn’t know whether this was magic or mere stealth, but either way, they let it flow through them, propelling them past thoughts of hesitation or worry.

The doorknob fit so easily in their palm.

They eased it downwards, slid the door open, not giving themselves a moment to pause until they were inside. It was only when the door was closed, and they had slunk to the darkest and nearest corner, that they let themselves look to the centre of the room.

A fire had been lit in the hearth, but was little more than glowing embers now, lumps of vivid red and ashy grey that provided enough light to illuminate the two bodies writhing against each other, but not so much that Haora would be exposed. The naked boy was sprawled on his belly, fingers grabbing at the sheets, the wings of his shoulder blades prominent, skin taut with tension. He looked so small and young, chestnut locks catching the firelight, skin free of scars or the remnants of struggle. Behind him, looming and aggressive, was the White Wolf. His hair was untied, long and remarkable, shining like a godly fabric. His chest was solid with muscle, his body huge, shoulders solid and true as he extended one arm forward to touch his companion.

Haora couldn’t quite see behind the boy’s pert bottom, but they knew what was being done to him. The White Wolf’s arm moved fast, his bicep bulging with every inward push, fingers undoubtedly swallowed up by the boy’s poor body. The boy cried, but seemed exhilarated. Haora had never been fucked by a man; they were equal parts intimidated and intrigued by the intensity of his defilement.

“Please, Geralt, please, please,”

Apparently unswayed, the White Wolf gave a noncommittal grunt. Even in the semi-darkness, movements and bodies reduced to flashes of red in the limited glow from the fire, Haora could see that he was smirking. He enjoyed this. Making his companion suffer in pleasure.

“Oh fuck, you’re going to- Please, Geralt, this is-” The boy’s body undulated, the small of his back curving. He spread his legs wider and leaned backward, seeking further agony in defiance of his words, “Please, it’s too much,”

“Shh,” the White Wolf hushed him, leaning down, pressing a kiss so tenderly to the boy’s neck, making Haora even more aroused, “Shh, Dandelion.”

“Please, I can’t- ah!”

The boy’s voice turned to a loud yell, almost a scream, when his lover moved his arm more violently, appearing to punch his hand deeper. When the boy writhed and whimpered, the White Wolf kissed him again, so gentle while being so cruel.

“Geralt, please,”

“What do you want, boy? Hmm?”

“I- I want, I…”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“I…”

“How about we ask our friend?”

The words didn’t make sense. Haora was convinced they must have misheard. Then, the White Wolf grabbed his companion by the neck, hauling him upwards onto his knees, the boy’s hands flying up to grab at the fist which had straightened him. He was exposed, facing Haora, body swaying in time to the thrusts that were forced inside, his poor neglected cock pressing against his navel. His mouth opened in a gasp, eyes fixing on Haora’s crouched form.

“You dirty little sneak,” he breathed.

Fear exploded within Haora, their heart hammering wildly.

“I’m,” they began, voice trembling, “I’m sorry, please don’t- Please don’t kill me.”

The White Wolf laughed, not ceasing his movements. “If you believe you pose a threat worth death, I would strongly urge you to reconsider your ego. Come here.”

Face burning, Haora rose to their feet. They were unsteady, absolute terror making them shake.

“I’m sorry,” they started to say, but were unable to continue, unable to force more words from their lips.

“Don't worry, young one. You needn’t be so frightened. Why kill you when we could have fun with you?”

Haora’s terror only increased with that. Their steps faltered, and they stopped in the middle of the room, linen tumbling to the floor as they prepared to flee. Kindness, unexpected and genuine, softened the White Wolf’s expression.

“No, not like that. I apologise. I don’t want to touch you. Neither of us will.”

Haora felt liable to vomit from fear. “Then… Then what do you- What do you want?”

“You enjoy watching, yes? A voyeur of others’ pleasure.”

Unable to speak, the servant nodded.

“Then that is all I will ask of you. You see,” he inclined his face into the boy’s cheek, kissing him again, “my bard is a pervert of the highest degree.”

The boy laughed breathlessly, grinding back onto the hand that fucked him, “A bold claim by the man with his fist up my-”

“Quiet, Dandelion.”

“Yes, _sir,”_ the boy replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. Haora understood, then, the dynamic between them. The pace of their heart lessened somewhat, the icy feeling of alarm retreating, making way for the boiling arousal which had so dominated before. The boy was safe, despite his whining appeals for escape; the boy was safe, and so were they.

"He enjoys being watched," The White Wolf continued to explain, "It makes him hard. So our meeting is one of fortune, wouldn't you say?"

"I, um. I guess."

"I would agree," the bard purred, gazing lustfully at Haora. As if in punishment for daring to speak, the pale-haired hunter pushed his companion down again, the boy's forehead meeting crumpled sheets. It was only then that Haora, standing closer now, was able to see the Witcher’s body in its entirety. They stared, unable to help themselves, at the flesh between the man’s legs.

“You’re,” Haora whispered, “You’re like me? The great White Wolf is- is like me?”

“Please, call me Geralt. If you’re to watch me fuck this idiot, we should be on a first name basis, wouldn’t you say?”

“I- I suppose-”

“And what is your name?”

“…Haora.”

Geralt hummed. “Well, Haora, I may not be entirely like you. But we do share similar origins. I, a man, and you…?”

Haora shrugged. It was all they could do. They didn’t have a word for what they were. Geralt seemed to accept that.

"Would you like to stay and watch us, young Haora?"

"I..." Haora had never been spoken to so directly before, had their consent sought with such interest. They didn't know quite how to handle the dignity of it all. They had become so accustomed to impolite and leering men, eyes trained upon them with dehumanising curiosity. But Geralt was looking at them as if they were an equal, of sorts. Like he would respect their words. It was only when they realised that they could freely leave that they wanted to stay. "I do, yes. If that's... alright...?"

The bard laughed, knees tucked beneath him to angle his bare ass upward. "You've seen all there is to see, already. No need to be shy."

Geralt nodded towards a chair which waited almost prophetically by the bedside. “Sit there. Touch yourself, if you like.”

Haora did as they were told. Dizzy with the surreality of all this, the sudden fantasy they had been thrown into, they slid their overshirt off their shoulders, leaving their sleeveless undershirt on, delighting in the androgyny of their chest when it was so flattened. They stripped off their pants, revealing a sight not dissimilar to Geralt’s own form. Their hips were more narrow, their thighs skinny, the stretch of their legs slender. They had no idea what the fuck they were doing, but the rationale went thusly; if Geralt wished to kill them, they would have been dead the moment they entered the room. They realised now that they had been a fool, imagining they would be able to sneak past the greatest hunter this kingdom had ever known.

They sat down, spread their legs. Hesitantly lowered their hand, fingers finding the wet front of their body, the sensitive bud of flesh. Geralt smiled.

“Good,” he said, offering such simple praise. Haora blushed, swirling their fingers in a circular motion.

With that, the pair seemed to forget Haora’s presence, which was fine by the servant. It was enough just to be here, to see a man with a similar body fucking a smaller, simpering, helpless boy. They could never have imagined themselves to be dominant before. Now, they were offered such carnal proof of their own capability.


	3. Chapter 3

The youngling touched their body, head tipping back, eyes hooded as they watched Geralt dominate the boy. Arousal moved through their slender form like a boiling liquid, fuelling the thrill of the night, pushing them towards the conclusion of their own swelling ecstasy. Their fingers became coated in clear, abundant slickness, and they were hypnotised by both the sight in front of them, and the freedom of finally exposing themselves this way.

Much of their life was spent in fear. Pretending to be one thing, trying desperately to be another. The forces of manhood and womanhood, drawing and quartering them, tugging them to places they didn’t belong. But here, in this room, they were not expected to be anything at all.

Jaskier, the dark-haired young man, finally came. Geralt held him up by the neck, thick hand curled beneath his breakable jaw, other fist pumping the boy’s cock without mercy. Jaskier had glazed eyes and an unfocussed, hysterical pace to his breathing, overstimulated by touch- and happily so. On display, teetering on his knees even as he trembled and swayed, one final shudder pummelled through his body. White splatters painted his pale belly and Geralt’s fingers, and in tandem, Haora’s lips parted to release a gasping cry.

With Jaskier, they embraced their climax.

The room flickered and shifted, Haora’s gaze slipping as their mind was overcome by a flood of emotion and sensation. They fell limp where they sat, twitching much in the same way that Jaskier was, slippery with sweat and overworked by lust. Haora was lucid enough to appreciate the comparison between them.

Geralt stood from the bed, tall and proud, body solid in ways Haora envied and admired. With lashes dipped down low, they watched the White Wolf stride forward. Before they could flinch away, instincts and movements dulled by the aftershocks of a powerful orgasm, Geralt lifted a blanket from the nearby dresser and draped it over their body. Hand still against their groin, Haora raised their eyebrows as soft cotton settled comfortingly against their naked form.

“I know it can be daunting,” Geralt told them flatly, his deep voice somehow betraying deep empathy and no emotion whatsoever, “Nakedness doesn’t come easily to people of unmatched bodies. Especially after the night is done.”

Haora smiled tentatively, unsure how to act around a person so stoic and mysterious, who they had just watched having sex. Geralt looked down at them, imposing and mighty, and for a long moment Haora was stuck trying to imagine what was going on beneath that frozen face. But the Witcher's expression softened and warmed; only slightly, just barely. The corners of his mouth tilted upward in what could hardly even be considered a smile, but Haora saw it. They saw the gentle tightening of his eyes, the approval and empathy of his gaze.

It felt like a gift.

Geralt turned away from them, walking back towards the bed, where Jaskier was now sprawled on his face, panting loudly. From the back, Haora couldn’t tell the mighty warrior was different at all. They enjoyed the sight of him, his taut buttocks, his muscular frame. How strange, to look at a man as if he were your teacher, your idol, but also see him as a pure manifestation of sexual energy. By the firelight, he looked to be an incubus, a great master of seduction. With brilliant white hair and magical masculinity.

Tonight really had been the best night.

***

Jaskier reclined in the wooden tub, steam curling around him, cheeks prettily flushed from the heat. He lazily plucked grapes from a nearby plate, rested as it was on a low table. He seemed to be the insolent manifestation of desire, almost bored in his manner, contrasting amusingly with his Witcher. His knees were drawn up against his chest, and opposite him was Haora, similarly posed. They had their arms wrapped lengthways to tug their knees tighter against their body, though they could tell neither man cared to notice their unbound chest. The hot water felt good. They felt clean, which was a rarity. They were so used to working themselves down to the bone, collapsing into bed with sore feet and an aching mind.

Geralt sat nearby, a towel wrapped around his waist. He was drawing a blade across a dark whetstone, with a concentration so intense it seemed loving. Jaskier gazed across at him sometimes, and Geralt—as if sensing the boy’s pleas for attention—would let a powerful hand drift downwards, palm settling against Jaskier’s mop of hair. The boy’s eyes would close as blunt fingernails scraped across his scalp, scents of damiana threaded through the air and painted over his delicate skin; exotic soaps which had been produced from Geralt’s bag and unceremoniously dropped into the bathwater. Haora wondered why a fierce warrior had time to collect such things.

Natural as anything, Geralt’s hand drifted back to his whetstone work. Jaskier gave a petulant sigh and opened his eyes, gaze falling upon the young person who shared a tub with him. He smiled widely, and Haora nervously returned the expression.

“You’re lucky to have caught us on such a notable night,” Jaskier drawled, “Ordinarily, he’s cleaning all manner of blood and guts off him, and I’m entertaining the locals in the hopes of a warm bed for the night.”

“Or you’re bedding anybody in sight,” Geralt muttered.

“Yes, quite,” Jaskier replied cheerfully, tipping his head backward to beam at his new lover, exposing the glistening arch of his throat, “Though that will change from now on, won’t it?”

Geralt glared at him.

“Such a grumpy old man.”

With a grunt, Geralt returned to sharpening his blade. Haora didn’t see any mirth in his expression, but when Jaskier straightened his head to look at the servant once more, it was as if the Witcher had expressed some profound love in the form of a monosyllabic huff. The boy’s eyes were sparkling, his demeanour delighted. They clearly were not privy to the inner workings of this pair and their strange dynamic. It was as fascinating as it was daunting. Haora tried very hard to relax in the water, yet couldn’t quite manage it.

“You’re unused to friendliness, yes?”

Haora blinked. “What?”

“Friendliness,” Jaskier repeated, taking a grape and popping it into his mouth, licking at his pink lips. A wave of hair fell down onto his forehead. He really was prettier than any girl Haora had ever seen. “Why, we might as well be torturing you, for all your joy.”

“I… I’m sorry. I just-”

“Oh, an apology isn’t necessary, darling. But why not just enjoy the evening?” Jaskier lifted both arms free of the tub, gesturing grandly to the room around them. “Why, the night is ours. You are safe here.”

Haora glanced over at Geralt. The Witcher seemed to ignore them, the _sching_ of metal piercing the air. Somehow, though, they sensed his agreement.

***

Within no time at all, Jaskier was loudly snoring, passed out in bed after briskly drying himself. The carefree drama with which he lived was amusing and entertaining in equal measure. If ever Haora had seen a damsel, Jaskier was one.

Geralt remained in his chair, sharpening another blade now. By the firelight, he was stoic and mysterious, shadow blanketing his features. Haora climbed out of the tub, face burning as they felt the night air touch against their body, but Geralt didn’t even glance up from his whetstone. They quickly dried themselves, trying to quell their anxiety. They dressed as quickly as they could without tripping over the legs of their pants, tugging buttons through stitching and feeling the blissful security of taut fabric over their chest once again. They hadn’t been told to leave, so they shyly sat down on a stool beside Geralt, knees pressed together, shoulders and back hunching beneath their draping shirt. They didn’t know what they wanted which they hadn’t already gotten, but they were just desperate to be in the warrior’s company a moment longer, to see someone similar to themselves in all his glory.

For a long moment, the room was silent. Except for Jaskier’s snoring.

Geralt lifted his knife, held it to the firelight. The metal gleamed. The backs of his hands were thick with veins, knuckles sturdy and roughened from years of abuse. Power pulsed from him in waves, and even when a strand of pale hair delicately fell to his cheek, he was no less magnificently powerful. Haora had never known someone so beautiful, and so frightening.

“Have you always-”

Haora cut themselves off, swallowing back their words. But Geralt lowered his knife and glanced placidly over at them, eyes betraying no emotion whatsoever.

“Go on,” he said.

Haora swallowed fretfully. They knotted their fingers in their lap, the salt of nervous sweat adding a spice to the perfumes of the bath they had just taken. They were sure that the Witcher could smell it. He was a hunter, after all.

“When you were… When you were young, did you… know?”

Geralt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Haora watched him, terrified that they had imposed by daring to ask. The pair sat there in the darkness, the servant too afraid to speak, too afraid to flee, too afraid to lose this opportunity. Their soul cried out for connection, for one other person who understood.

“I knew that I was a boy,” Geralt murmured evenly, gazing into space, “as all boys know they are boys. But that caused problems. As you well know.”

Haora nodded. They surely did.

“Kaer Morhen became home after my mother decided she couldn't raise a freak. I said that I was a man trapped in a false skin, and my masters told me, _prove it._ So I did. I worked harder than anyone else believed I could. All because I wanted it. I wanted to be a man.”

“I hear… I hear the stories. About what they… do. To Witcher boys.”

“Mmm.”

“That must have been…”

“Grueling? Painful? Torturous? Agonising?”

Haora couldn’t believe they were casually talking about this, with a Witcher himself. They quaked to imagine what he had been through. Wordlessly, they again nodded. Geralt hummed in affirmation, which appeared to be his favourite method of communication. How calm he was about the tortures of his youth. The gentle murmurs, his deep, serene tone. So peaceful in his recollection of nightmarish experiences.

“It was all those things and more.”

“But they let you… They let you be a boy…?”

“Mm. All they cared about was the ability to swing a sword. Survive the Trial of the Grasses. I fought to prove myself, and they bestowed the title of _Witcher_ upon me. And the title of _man._ They were my family. They gave me everything.”

"I wish I... I wish I had that."

To their surprise, Geralt reached over towards them. His big, strong hand settled over their bunched fists, the warm weight of his palm anchoring them in this moment. For what seemed like the first time, he looked them steadily in the eyes, the power of his presence startling them. Haora stared back at him and tried not to move.

"You find it in your own life," Geralt told them, "Family will come. But you have to fight for it. You will not be given an easy road to travel. For people like us, it rarely is simple. There will be pain. There will be suffering. But you can beat it. You can _win_."

Haora stared at him, wordless. Geralt continued to hold their gaze, even as they wilted beneath the weight of emotion, face wobbling, eyes beginning to glisten with tears. Geralt's hand rose, palm settling against the nape of their neck, gripping them reassuringly. In a dark room, with a man they felt they had known all their life, Haora started to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Years Later**

The tavern was warm and inviting, its walls providing safe shelter for folks of all kinds. Raucous laughter and conversation ebbed and flowed, hard-drinking guests filling their bellies with lovingly prepared meals. Soldiers and civilians alike respected this place, knew that setting foot on these wooden floorboards meant surrendering all violence. Hard glances were not tolerated, harsh words silenced by the meaty fists of the innkeeper. People had tried to burn the place down, assailed the establishment at all hours, but by the following morning it would always seem unscathed, as if the assault had never taken place. Not a scratch on its walls, a dent in the front door. The rumours, whispered between wide-eyed townsfolk and servicemen alike, was that the owner was protected by some kind of spell. Some thought that he himself possessed magical abilities, but all attempts to capture him had been foiled. He seemed to slip into the shadows whenever anyone tried to capture him, as though he were made of smoke.

By now, people had just stopped trying. They were too desperate for peace, frantic for an evening away from the blood and gore. It wasn’t worth defeating a foe when all said foe wanted, by available accounts, was to serve juicy meat and spicy liquor. The alcohol flowed freely and with near-grotesque excess. As if drugged by the food itself, patrons would leave sleepy and happy. Everyone knew that _something_ was going on in this ramshackle little tavern, but nobody dared deal with it. They were too busy being addicted to it.

The innkeeper himself was a short, sturdy man. Not a dwarf, but a stout human, with a broad face and an impressive scar seared across his right cheek. He was thick with muscle where otherwise he may have been slight, bulk earned through hard labour and regular fights, better at negotiating the intricacies of human violence than anybody else who dared walk this war-ravaged land. He stayed in the midst of it all, surrounded by violence and bloodshed, apparently unafraid. He had grey, colourless eyes, and a smattering of faint brown freckles against leathery, ashen skin. Dark hair was shaved short against his scalp, chin and jaw smooth as though he took a razor to his face every morning. Broad-chested and sure-footed, he was an imposing figure despite his trim waist and his height.

His employees were given beds, a fair wage, and a roof over their head. A bard sung praises with a stringed instrument at hand, weaving joy through the shouted conversations of guests. The innkeeper watched at all times, seated on the upstairs balcony, gaze steady on the crowds below. If a hand strayed where it wasn’t welcome, or a word was edged with hostility, he would leap down like the most graceful elf, landing on feathery feet before slamming a fist between the shocked eyes of an unsuspecting perpetrator. He took a keen interest in the affairs of women, protecting them from the terrible things men did during war, where lesser civilians might turn a blind eye to save their own hide.

Townspeople said that he had lost a great lady love, seen her death at the hands of some terrible creature. But nobody knew for sure why he cared so deeply; it was just a theory.

They didn’t know anything about him.

On this night, he was watching from the balcony as per usual, arms crossed above his thick vest, long-sleeved shirt, and undershirt. He seemed overdressed for the warm, sweltering night, but not one person dared ask him why. As he watched the scene below, boisterous and wild like some kind of fanciful painting, a beautiful woman approached him from behind. She had tiptoed upstairs, past the servants, innocuous enough that she had gone unnoticed. She wore a sleeveless tunic with modest fabric shoes, bare ankles pink from the rubbing of grasses, shins and knees bruised from her daily toiling as a farmhand. Her blonde hair was untied and spilling about her narrow shoulders, big beseeching eyes watching the innkeeper as though she were besotted. He turned his head to gaze at her, having long sensed her presence.

“My darling,” he greeted her calmly, “You look as though you need a good rest.”

She blinked at him, as though she hadn’t expected him to speak, or she was simply losing her nerve. He swivelled around, swinging his legs to hop down from the balcony railing, boots planted firmly on the floor opposite her. They were similar in height.

“Your name, miss?”

“…Luanda.”

“Well, Luanda. Why have you come up here? Only my workers are permitted access to this area.”

He sounded patient, not angry. Still, she blushed, glancing shamefully down towards her toes.

“I beg your forgiveness, sir… I don’t know what came over me. I simply wanted to… be near you.”

He tipped his head back, dull eyes sparkling with amusement and curiosity. He recognised her now, as a girl from a nearby town. He had seen her before, with her brilliant hair and her meek glances, noticed her interest in him. She was of age, he knew that much. But, though his interest was piqued by the beautiful woman’s confession, he was hardly a brute. She deserved to be taken care of properly, before anything further was to occur.

“Come, now,” he told her gently, stepping closer and taking her hand, “There will be time enough for closeness. What say we fix you a bath, hmm?”

She seemed surprised. Then, with a smile, she nodded.

He led her away.

***

He took her to his private room, leaving the tavern in the hands of old veterans who he had bribed to leave the army. They now served at his leisure. They were to stop any trouble before it arose, though it rarely did. He had made sure of that.

Luanda allowed him to bathe her, leaning backward as he ran a cloth over smooth flesh, gently scrubbing the stresses of everyday life from her young form. Her breathing settled, lips parted, sighs touching upon his neck as he leaned over her to clean her. For all her nudity, this was a sexless moment, as though he were bathing a friend. She felt safe. He knelt there on the floor, as though _he_ were the servant. She was a common farmhand, considered a worthless peasant by most, seen as a piece of meat by many. Reverence and respect was not familiar.

"No man has ever treated me so kindly," she admitted softly.

"Men rarely are kind," he replied, "particularly in war. Though there are exceptions."

She reached up, palm moistened from bathwater. She touched her fingers to his cheek, feeling the soft skin beneath the heavy line of his jaw.

"Exceptions... Like you?"

"Me?" He slid the cloth over the curve of her shoulder, amused by the question. "I would hope so."

"I sensed that about you," she confessed, her voice pitched high with youth, "I sensed that you were different."

"You would have been correct."

"I don't even know your name."

"It's Haora."

"That's an unusual name. Never met a man named Haora before."

He smirked, dipping the cloth into the steaming water, wetting it so he could wash her skin properly.

"I'm not a man," he explained, "Not entirely, anyway."

She watched him keenly, rapt excitement sharpening her stare. She straightened up in the bath, folding her slender legs beneath her, kneeling to face him in the warm water. She reached up, water cascading down from her arms in splashes. She took his face between both hands, cupping his jaw. He watched her calmly, noticing the incremental changes in her expression, the wonder blooming in her eyes as she noticed the aspects of his face nobody else looked closely at. He felt a spark of excitement, thrilled to be seen so intimately. Water dripped, candles fluttering, warm light flicking across every surface. She was so beautiful, and he was so suddenly in love. _Luanda_. A poetic meeting of syllables.

"My," she breathed, "What a mystery you are."

He smiled wider, felt her damp palms against his cheeks. He considered that a compliment. He had never aspired to fit anywhere in particular. Geralt had changed him, taught him that moving through the world in this way was possible, but that didn't mean they were the same. He was exactly the person he had always been; still the confused child, still the not-girl who had run away from the image of their mother's daughter, still the in-between creature who had discovered a bard and his lover on a fateful night. He carried these truths within him, as authentically as he carried himself in a world that knew him to be a man. It was _him_ now, certainly as far as everybody else was concerned. But inside, part of him would always be _them._ He supposed he longed for a lover who would embrace that complexity.

Luanda tilted his head gently about, as if seeking every angle of him, every inch of skin. The pad of her thumb caressed a freckle beneath his left eye. He watched her back, happy to be witnessed, happy to be held. Her chest was bared, breasts exposed to the air, but he felt no desire to look until she bade him. She was tempting, yes, and beautiful. But the fascination of her stare was the most magnificent of all things to behold.

"Are you... a woman?" Her question was not cruel or hateful, sheer inexperience guiding her enquiry. A hunger for knowledge, for understanding, burned in her face. Someone so young, who contained such passion... Haora was pleasantly surprised.

"No," he replied patiently, "Though some would argue otherwise. I was born in false skin, into the life of a girl. But I've moved on."

"I can see that," Luanda blurted, seeming then to laugh at her own enthusiasm, "Pardon me, sir, but you're- Why, I think you're the most handsome person I've ever set eyes on."

"Why, thank you, darling."

"You say... you're not a man. Yet you live as one."

"I do."

"And... calling you _sir,_ is that... correct?"

"It is."

"But your soul, the truth of you...?"

He shrugged. "I am myself. Neither a woman, nor a man. Closer to a man, perhaps. I contain boundless depths. We all do."

She exhaled loudly, as though stunned. He waited to see whether she was scared, or worried. He considered that perhaps he ought to have told her before she started to bathe, but it was too late now. Sometimes he forgot himself, too infatuated to remember how unusual he was in the eyes of many.

But she wasn't afraid.

She took his hand, the one not holding the washcloth, slender fingers wrapped around his wrist. She pulled his hand close, guiding his palm to the swell of her breast. He continued to watch her eyes, holding her gaze as he gently dragged his finger across the bud of her nipple. She blushed so prettily, leaning forward into the feather-light sensation of another's hand. She seemed so sensitive, so freshly tender. Which brought to mind a question.

"Has any person ever touched you?"

She paused at that, looking down.

"...Yes," she confessed, voice faint and almost inaudible now, "It's as you say... men are cruel in wartime."

Haora felt a stab of regret in his heart, regretting the query. He placed two fingers below her chin and tilted her face up so that she was looking at him once more. She seemed pained, but most distressingly, he could see the weight of shame twisting her soul.

"I ask, not to humiliate you, but to understand your tale. I expect nothing of you. I want nothing but your truth. What others have done does not define you. If I am to touch you... I wish to make you feel good. I wish to make you feel safe. That," he breathed these words now, pained in his sincerity, "is the only reason I wanted to know. Let us speak of it no longer."

He barely saw the flash of relief on her face, her broad smile, before she was lurching suddenly forward and yanking him into a hug. She threw her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close, face at his shoulder. He held her tightly, unconcerned with the dampness that sunk into his clothes, hands against the soft rise of her spine.

"Thank you," she exclaimed in a breathless rush, "Thank you, thank you."

He chuckled and rested his chin on the crook of her neck. He desired her, but would happily stay like this for as long as she wished.

"It's nothing less than what you deserve, dear Luanda."

***

They went to his bedroom, Luanda given a robe and a quick escort through a discreet hallway to protect her privacy. Haora was many things, a hopelessly horny romantic included-- but he had no desire to show the girl off to the tavern and parade her around as if she were a conquest. He despised that kind of behaviour.

The tavern, in full swing for the night, did not miss Haora. His calming magic was soaked into the walls, seeped into the tables like the sweet, sticky residue of alcohol. No violence would erupt, not for now. It was time to make something good of this terrible year. He closed his bedroom door behind him and, with a quick wave of his hand, he locked the door so nothing could interrupt them. As he did, the room seemed to grow more quiet, the jeering conversation of patrons melting away into nothingness. A faint glow outlined the door, and then disappeared. They were properly alone.

When he turned to face his bed, Luanda was slipping the robe off her shoulders. Even with bruised legs and a battered frame, she was magnificent. There was a quiet, understated brilliance about her.

He crossed the room to her, but let her lean into him, let her initiate the kiss. His eyes slid closed easily, their mouths slotting together as though they were meant to fit this way. She rested her hands on his waist, fingers tentatively feeling him, seeking bare skin below the hem of his shirt. When she encountered taut, heavy fabric, she paused.

"It flattens me," he explained against her lips, "More permanent remedies to my situation are... too risky."

"What remedies are there?"

"Magic. Blades." He smoothed his hand over the contours of her figure, fingers following the rise and fall of her ribs. "Too many would take my coin and butcher me. But someday... Someday I'll find a healer who can help. Someone with experience."

She kissed him again, as if tasting the words, eating them up. Thanking him for his honesty. He exhaled into the kiss, relieved and aroused by her interest in things that others deemed shameful.

"Can I... see you?"

He leaned back, looked in her eyes. He looked for cruelty, the kind of dehumanising fascination which had left him feeling violated and angry in the past, but all he saw was lust. She wanted him, _all_ of him, in whatever form he came.

Without speaking, movements laden with meaning, he untied the front of his vest, fingers making quick work of the cords. She watched him, entirely naked herself, somehow the more powerful person in the room. He had waited so long to be watched like this, to be _wanted_ like this. She was a beautiful thing, a remarkable young woman with a gaze that penetrated him, held him in place. A flutter of nervousness in his chest, to be displaying himself so intimately-- but he wanted it. He craved it.

He discarded his vest on the floor, and then his loose shirt. Then came the final layer of safety, the barrier between him and the rest of the world. He stretched his arms above his head, grunting quietly as he stripped his secret bare.

"That looks uncomfortable."

"Yeah," he huffed, laughing, "It is."

"Do you wear it every day?"

"I do."

"I hope it doesn't hurt you too much."

He balled the undershirt in his hands, mulling that over. "Do you know," he remarked, "nobody has ever said that to me before."

She moved closer to him once again, placing a hand on his sternum. He tensed up immediately, but her gaze was heavy with desire, and he reminded himself that he was safe. She leaned forward, kissing him more gently now, their lips brushing, noses bumping.

"You're so strong," she whispered, "You're so sturdy. Here."

She pressed the pads of her fingers against the hard swell of his chest, above the softer flesh he so wished to cut away. As though she could see the version of him he worked so hard to create, despite the things he could not change. The muscle he had earned through hauling barrels and running a business, the muscle of a fighter and a hustler.

He pulled her close, passion swelling inside him. Her mouth was soft against his, the drag of her tongue hot and silky. She held him as tightly as he held her, her hands drifting down to grab the swell of his ass.

"Such a fine figure of a man," she groaned, "Or, a mostly-man."

He laughed.

"I've watched you for so long."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she admitted with obvious enthusiasm. "Seeing you at the tavern, you caused such fire within me. Wanted to touch you. Just like this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please chuck us a comment, I love hearing from y'all


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